Alchemy: The New Duct Tape
by Rhianwen
Summary: In which Armstrong is possessed of a Brilliant Idea, Mustang jumps enthusiastically on board, and Everyone Else prays for swift, merciful death. Mild Roy x Riza warnings that'll probably get less and less mild with each passing chapter.


Alchemy: The New Duct Tape

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Disclaimer: The characters appearing and mentioned within this piece are not the creations or proerty of the author, who is borrowing them without permission, but also for no profit, for more reasons than that someone would need severe head trauma to pay good money for something like this. The only character of note that I actually own is Charlton Hest--er, Carlton Weston, who was so heavily inspired by, um, someone, as to be more or less someone else's too.

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Summary: In which Armstrong is possessed of a Brilliant Idea, Mustang adopts it with the greatest of enthusiasm, and Everyone Else spends a lot of time praying for safety, or at least swift, merciful death. One gigantic, multi-chapter running gag, so depth and profundity is best sought elsewhere.

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Notes in Advance: I'm sure this idea has been done before, but I hope I can manage to bring something new, or at least reasonably entertaining, from it. This piece in general is dedicated to my dear Bezo, who found this aspect of Fullmetal Alchemist absolutely hilarious.

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It was a lovely, sunny afternoon late in June, if one didn't count the fact that it was early April, not to mention the cold, chilling drizzle of rain and the fact that the sun was completely obscured by sulky grey clouds.

All the birds that had tried to sing cheerily in the trees had long since given up in disgust, and the bunnies that may have earlier been frolicking in the fields had likewise decided sadly, with tears shining in their huge, adorable bunny-eyes, that perhaps this wasn't the best weather for frolicking. After all, the whole _flow_ of the frolic tended to be thrown off when one missed a step and landed in a puddle. They'd climb out, dripping and muddy, and all the bunnies would laugh, and then promptly miss their own step and tumble into muddy puddles of their own.

And as everyone knows, a lot of grumpy, muddy bunnies are not a happy sight.

Despite the rain, and despite the grumpiness of the hypothetical muddy bunnies, Major Alex Louis Armstrong smiled to himself behind his impressive mustache as a group of children ran, shrieking with laughter, past his bedroom window.

"Hey, didja see the old bat's face when he took her purse?" one of the little boys cackled to his pals.

"Did I! Gosh, that was swell!" another sighed happily, eyes shiny with the sweet memories.

"Look, fellas, she keeps Scotch mints in here!"

"Scotch mints! Alright!"

"Dear little tykes," Armstrong, too far away to hear the details of the children's conversation, murmured mistily to himself, his sparkles flashing brightly around him. "Ah, for the innocence of youth…"

Chuckling over a few of his own fondest childhood memories – building a treehouse with his friends, relocating both tree and house to just outside the bedroom window of the neighbour's eighteen-year old swimsuit model niece, hiding that same neighbour's car just around the corner for a harmless childish prank – he strode grandly into the kitchen for some toast.

Muscle flexed and sparkles danced as he sliced and buttered, and it was mere moments before he seated himself at the kitchen table, his morning repast spread before him, the serenity blessed to the early riser of the world settling gently over the scene.

It was rather strange, and remains so to this day, that Armstrong should have emerged from this entirely tranquil and ordinary beginning to the day possessed of a Brilliant Idea.

Some experts have concluded that, as nothing of particular note to the overriding plot had occurred in some time, his subconscious desperately craved an end to the monotony that had an overwhelming tendency to come with peace, and was prepared to go to the lengths of ending it himself.

Other experts have concluded that Armstrong was simply Rather Strange, with a Strangeness that has been passed down in the Armstrong line for seven generations.

Nevertheless, whether Bored or Strange, somewhere between his second slice of toast and his third cup of coffee, an Idea had sparked in Armstrong's mighty and elegant brain, and there was no denying any Idea fuelled by the momentum of Armstrong's personality.

"That's it!" he proclaimed, leaping to his feet in a triumphant pose, shirt mysteriously disappearing. "I must hurry and relate this stroke of inspiration to Colonel Mustang!"

With that, he charged from the apartment, burning with determination to put his new Idea into effect as soon as possible.

"I certainly hope he isn't expecting his deposit back," Armstrong's landlady tsked when she happened by, drawn by the crash, to find that, just as there was not the man in existence who could deny an Idea fuelled by the momentum of the man's personality, there was also not the wall in existence that could withstand the force of the man's mighty musculature when fuelled by said Idea.

She shook her head, eyeing the Armstrong-shaped hole in the wall.

"At this point, he owes me about three times the original amount."

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"So...you think we should go around, using our alchemy to...help people?" that same Mustang repeated, stroking his imaginary beard thoughtfully, approximately twenty minutes later.

"Yes," Armstrong confirmed, mustache quivering with conviction. "I was pondering this matter over my lightly buttered toast and heavily sugared coffee this morning, and it came to me in a great flash of inspiration.

"As State Alchemists, are we not to _be thou for the people_? We have all committed acts in the past that we are not proud of, but even more than that, all too often the _people_ that we are _for_ acquire the impression that alchemy is simply and solely a source and a means of horrific violence. We ourselves are well familiar with the great power of alchemy in all situations, but it is a power that most have seen used only for destruction. I suggest that we show the citizens of this fair city that we can aid and protect them in constructive and beneficial ways, too!"

"Hey, isn't that was Full Metal and his brother have been doing for the last three years?" Havoc wondered, scratching his head curiously, unlit cigarette bobbing merrily away. "And isn't that kind of, y'know, the _point_?"

Armstrong froze and turned slowly toward the spiky-haired young man, who in turn was treated to a brief montage of the entirety of his twenty-seven years flashing quickly before his eyes.

"Then we shall learn from the wisdom of young Edward, and follow his example as he leads us back to what we were meant to be! Oh, the nobility and wisdom of one so young! Truly an inspiration to us all!" Armstrong bellowed dramatically, muscles flexing and dancing before the young man's despairing eyes.

"That kid really is the Full Metal," a gruff, gravelly, slightly raspy voice added for No Apparent Reason, amid the revving of a car engine.

Armstrong and Mustang turned towards this stranger, apparently untroubled either by the fact that this sentiment made little sense, or by the car being driven through Mustang's office, and nodded their wholehearted agreement.

With that, the stranger posed in a noble, yet distinctly badass and anti-heroish manner, and then sped off.

"Uh, okay, that was weird," Havoc noted from the corner he had been inching toward from the moment that Armstrong's shirt had shown signs of Mysteriously Disappearing.

At this juncture, the door swung swiftly open.

"Was Carlton Weston just here?" the newcomer demanded in a hushed, reverent voice.

"Good morning to you, too, Lieutenant Hawkeye," Mustang said mildly.

"Who the hell is Carlton Weston, anyway?" Havoc asked, peeking over his shoulder and emerging slowly from the corner when he noticed Armstrong's shirt back on him, and his muscles temporarily stilled.

The young woman gaped briefly in disbelief.

"W-who _is_ he?! He's only the greatest actor of our day! _Planet of the Squid_, _Soylent Chartreuse_--not to mention, he's the founder and president of the MRA!"

Havoc blinked repeatedly.

"The who in the what, now?"

"The Municipal Rifle Association! They tried to go national, but they couldn't drum up the interest."

"Oh, yeah," Havoc agreed, a light of comprehension breaking over his face. "They have some pretty good bake sales, when they can get a working oven. Usually, they break down after the third time a member tries to adjust the temperature by shooting at the dials."

"Amateurs," Hawkeye scoffed disdainfully. "But forget about the bake sales; that man has done more for the popularization of firearms than any other individual of our time!"

"Yeah, that's a credential, alright," Havoc grinned.

"Oh, forget it," Hawkeye sighed, withdrawing a weapon. "You just don't understand."

"Hey, wait a second!" Havoc protested, diving for the corner again. "You're going to shoot me because I didn't know who Carlton Weston was?!"

She blinked.

"What? No, I want him to autograph it. If I hurry, I can still catch him. Colonel?" she concluded hopefully, peeking over her shoulder.

"Oh, fine, go ahead," Mustang grumbled, only getting as far as _go ahe—_ before the numbers in the room dwindled to three, and something suspiciously and chillingly like a delighted squeal drifted back towards them. He glowered darkly at the tire tracks on the carpet. "Overrated crusty badass cheeseball. I'm sure I could end up with a sexy rasp too, if I spent all my time overacting and smoking."

"But back to our idea, Colonel," Armstrong prodded, approaching the still fuming young man tentatively. "I think it has considerable merit."

"You're right," he agreed solemnly, pushing abruptly from his chair. "While the stage is being set for our atonement by events of an episodic nature far from us, we can still compensate in small ways for our own actions in the past. It is now time to make amends toward the common man – with alchemy! And if nothing else," he continued, just as dramatically, "it gets me out of a day's worth of paperwork."

"Well said, Colonel!" Armstrong said heartily, face utterly impassive with pride. "Let us go forth and be-thou-for-the-people until it hurts!"

"Hey, Chief?" Havoc piped up, peering through the rain-streaked windows. "You really think you should be outside on a day like this? At least wait for Hawkeye to stop chasing down this Weston guy, and we'll come with you."

"No need, Havoc," Mustang ground out, eye twitching slightly. "Believe it or not, even I can do things that don't involve these gloves."

"Alchemy is no one-trick pony!" Armstrong added, flexing grandly.

"Hey, wait a second! I just meant, he catches a cold if he sits too close to the air conditioning system," Havoc hastened to explain.

"Oh," Mustang said, his indignation rapidly deflating. "Right."

"And no offense, Colonel," Havoc added, much encouraged by the lack of fiery death in the nearby vicinity, "but you're a real baby when you're sick."

Before Mustang could fully register this latest comment and become properly indignant over it, Armstrong patted comfortingly on the back, sending him pitching forward into the surface of his desk.

"No matter! The inclement weather cannot last forever! When the sun emerges again, we can traverse the city together, righting wrongs and triumphing over evil where we find it! Until then, I shall walk alone."

"Hey, maybe you can find some good deeds to do around here," Havoc snickered, all the wind taken out of his sails when Armstrong brightened, his mustache perking up a little.

"Of course! All too often, we forget goodwill and kindness towards those who share our days. While circumstances confine you to the building, you can rekindle that spark of kindness towards your men...with ALCHEMY! Good luck, Colonel Mustang."

With that, he strode grandly from the room, leaving two men behind him, one deeply inspired, and the other deeply befuddled.

"Uh...what just happened?" Havoc asked hesitantly.

Roy turned to his subordinate with a great big smile that would, incidentally, star in Havoc's nightmares for the next seven weeks, give or take a night.

"Let me help you, friend. With alchemy!"

Havoc backed away nervously, busily calculating how long it would take him to reach his nice, safe corner again, should the need arise.

"Uh, what?"

Mustang laughed.

"What's a cigarette without a light, after all?"

This, Havoc decided, was exactly the kind of need he had imagined might arise. But now that it was happening, damned if he could make himself budge. Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, frozen in terror and staring down inevitable crispification, explaining frantically why he really preferred matches, using alchemy might ruin the flavour of the cigarette, it could be a tricky target, don't go to the trouble just to blacken his lungs even more, he should be cutting back anyway.

Waving off his protests, Roy approached, tugging on his gloves, and then, inches from the dismayed young man, snapped.

And so it was that, when Hawkeye returned a moment later, despondent over the utter lack of her randomly appearing hero in the vicinity, it was to the sight of two stunned-looking fellows, eyebrows distinctly missing.

"Please don't tell me what happened," she requested with a heavy sigh. "Just sit still while I fix this."

"With the power of alchemy?" Roy asked hopefully.

"No," she replied flatly. "With the power of eyebrow pencil."

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While Mustang and Havoc were busily receiving their first (or in Mustang's case, third) in-depth lesson on the nature and proper application of cosmetics, Armstrong strode nobly through the drenched city streets, untroubled by any notion of the emasculation of the two unfortunates.

Despite the rain streaming down his face and seeping through the heavy fabric of his uniform, his single golden curl stood proudly, and his mustache protruded outward from either side of his lip, its shape as elegant and immaculate as ever it had been.

He squinted through the driving rain, ever alert for the cry of a citizen in danger. It had been a long and arduous process, the seeking of injustice – or at the very least, inconvenience – and it seemed fifteen days rather than fifteen minutes since he had first left headquarters on his quest.

"The rain is certainly chilling," he noted to no one in particular. "And a little depressing. One would think that in such weather, there would be more citizens in dire need. When did everyone in this city get so damned contented, anyway?"

He was spared from further pondering of this burning question, by the sound of a plaintive little sniffle to his immediate left.

His eyes narrowed, and slid in that direction.

A small child, her long red plaits streaming with rain as steadily as her big pretty green eyes were with tears.

"What seems to be the trouble, young lady?" he asked gently, crouching down next to the girl.

"My kitty is up in a tree!" she wailed, pointing to a nearby tall chestnut tree, on the top branch of which was, indeed, a small grey animal of the feline persuasion, clinging desperately to the branch, slick and treacherous with rain.

"Poor child," he sighed, shaking his head. "Separated from your little companion. Fear not! I will reunite you with your furry friend! With ALCHEMY!"

With that, he scooped the girl up in one arm, slammed his free hand to the ground, and held the tiny redhead tightly as a pillar sprang up from the earth to lift them high into the air.

"There, now," he beamed, settling her onto the tree branch next to the cat, heedless of her frantic yelps of protest. "You're together again."

And so, basking in the glow of his good deed, Armstrong continued on, utterly untroubled by the shrill watered down profanities commonly heard in the average school yard debate about who got to go first in hopscotch, or whether one was or was not, in fact, It.

"Grown-ups are really stupid," little Sadie lamented to her feline friend, Stormcloud.

"Meow," Stormcloud replied mournfully, reflecting that if her pint-sized mistress had substituted _humans_ for _grown-ups_, she might have hit the nail on the head.

But perhaps that wisdom would come with age. For now, there were more important things to worry about.

Like finding a way out of this tree.

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"Excuse me, but I just wanted to let everyone know, the plumbing isn't working properly in the third-floor men's room, so maybe we could just avoid using it until I can get hold of a plumber for some repAAACK!"

Thus was the rather curious statement uttered by one Master Sergeant Kain Fuery, upon slipping unobtrusively into the room, only to find two men seated side-by-side, one incredibly reluctant and one quite willing, and a woman who might as well have _been _a man for all Fuery had ever associated her with such things, leaning over them, brandishing an eyebrow pencil.

"You know what? I think that's good. I've been thinking about going for the browless look for a while," Havoc announced, attempting to squirm away and getting a pencil in the eye for his troubles.

"We're almost done. I have a little more shading to do, so hold still for a minute," Hawkeye ordered absently, sweeping the tip of the light tawny brown pencil over the place that undoubtedly should have contained Havoc's eyebrows.

"I don't know why we're bothering with this, anyway," the newly-browed man pouted. "Who needs eyebrows?"

She pulled back and regarded him sternly.

"Eyebrows are a very crucial part of the facial structure. Without eyebrows, you risk a sharp drop in temperature in the under-brow area. Do you have any idea how many problems that can lead to? And anyway," she added with a shrug before he could answer that no, he quite honestly had no idea, "you looked kind of funny, and it was distracting."

"Hey, you know what else looks funny?" Mustang spoke up, frowning at his reflection in the tiny mirror on the inside of the powder compact he'd found by pure fluke deep in the recesses of a long-unsearched drawer of his makeshift cosmetician's desk. "When you draw the eyebrows unevenly."

Hawkeye turned abruptly to the nearest wall, facing carefully away from everyone in the room, and counted slowly and deliberately to ten.

"Colonel," she said as evenly as possible, "we've been over this. They're not uneven."

"They are, too," he pouted. "One is higher than the other."

"Maybe that's why most people try not to squirm and bounce around when they're getting their makeup done," Havoc snickered.

Fuery, recovering his powers of motion, inched backwards a few centimeters, towards the door.

Mustang continued to study his reflection disgustedly.

"It makes me look…I don't know, patronizing. And dismissive."

"Because of the eyebrows, you say?" she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose wearily.

"Help me out here, guys," Mustang implored. "Do you really want to be patronized all day?"

Havoc snickered again.

"I don't think I'd take it too seriously from a guy who couldn't light a cigarette without burning off his own facial hair."

"Uh, I'm just going to go call a plumber," Fuery said hastily, turning and bolting for the door.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Mustang protested, up from his chair, uneven eyebrows and all, in an instant. "Don't bother with the plumber; I can fix it. With alchemy!"

And outside, the clouds went from sulky gray to ominous black, and a flash of lightning filled the air.

"That's definitely a bad sign," Fuery sighed amid the deafening clap of thunder that followed seconds later. "Why didn't I stay home today?"

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End Notes: Yes. I am a Dork. But I'm a dork who has fun. Anyway, I hope I didn't brutalize characterization and logic any more than the average Sillyfic is permitted.


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